


Black suit, red rose and a broken heart.

by xxyasuxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Johnlock - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxyasuxx/pseuds/xxyasuxx





	Black suit, red rose and a broken heart.

There was this one case, nothing special, just as usual. In their rush of adrenaline, they blindly fled from a well educated rifleman.  
Sherlock, ten metres ahead, puffs out giggles of excitement, in believe to successfully outdistanced the shooter. But as he rests there, recovering some breath, he hears a sudden bang. Immediately looking for John, he asserts, that his doctor isn't by his side.   
The bullet wasn't supposed to hit himself, thus it was meant for John.  
After whole five seconds, he finds him in this darkened alley, John laying in wet and dirty rubbish, bleeding from the wound the bullet has caused, by going through his back. He just looks like a fallen soldier. Panicking, not knowing what to do, Sherlock wraps his arms around John, wishing to make it stop. He rocks John and whispers, that all will be fine and that he is with him now, wanting to calm himself down and not completely losing his mind.  
In sudden concentration, Sherlock tears down his scarf and ties it around Johns waist to stop, or at least lower the bleeding. Promptly he summons the ambulance to the street they are in. Fortunately, John still has a pulse, he breaths. With gentle slaps on John's cheeks, he keeps him awake. He tries his best and talks to John, so that he stays with him. But it is too much for him.  
Sherlock begins to sweat, his throat gets dry and his body numb. Tears are already streaming down his face. In a hurry, he takes off his coat, throws it by his side and unbuttons his jacket and the first button of his shirt. He messly folds the jacket and carefully places it beneath John's head. In bitter tears, Sherlock looks deeply into the man's eyes below him, so that he won't forget them. He kneels besides and holds the neck of the man. His other hand grabs John's hand and as John squeezes back, Sherlock shows a smile of distress. They both know, that this is the end, but neither of them brings out a word. This isn't how it was supposed to be going.

After eight minutes, just before the ambulance arrived, the body of John Watson got heavy and stopped working. In complete disbelieve, Sherlock pressed the lifeless body against his own and kissed the man's forehead. Just this one time, like he always wanted to. After that, he closed John's eyes and covered the body with his coat. Before anybody could talk, he just said, emotionless: "You are late." They should have been there earlier. The paramedic asked many question, to which Sherlock didn't respond. One wanted to touch Sherlock, for comfort, but he jumped up, stepped back and tottered away with the words: "Just keep the clothes, I don't see any more use in them."

The next weeks, nobody outside 221B gets to see the face of the famous detective. Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson serves him tea, which he doesn't bare a look. After the reports of her, Sherlock didn't walk any distances longer than to the bathroom and back to his bedroom.   
"On good days, one can hear him walk and on others, there is just this silent sobbing in the middle of the night", she says, as Molly first came to visit Baker Street after the tragedy. "He never drinks my tea. I always retrieve the cold cups and pour it down the drain."   
Molly answers cautious: "I am afraid to hear that, but would you mind, if I'd take a look by myself? I kind of want to see him, although he probably doesn't want to see me."  
"Go ahead, dear, but don't get frightened."  
After Molly spent a few minutes upstairs, she enters Mrs. Hudson's kitchen again, but with a complete different look on her face. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson. I tried so hard to talk to him but he didn't show any response. Not verbal nor physical. He just laid there, back turned to the door and wrapped in his blanket. I have never seen him like that before."   
"Neither have I."   
"Does he stay hydrated? I mean, he has to eat and drink, doesn't he?"  
"Very rarely but yes, he does."   
Molly isn't the only one, who is worried about a friend. Lestrade once showed up and forced harder ways of communication.  
As he arrives upstairs, loud music blasts from Sherlocks room. Intensely sad violin and piano pieces of classic music plays from music boxes, to which the mobile phone of Sherlock is connected. Lestrade decides to turn the volume down.   
"Sherlock, what are you doing here. Is this the way, you want to stay until the day of reckoning? You can't lay there forever, not speaching a word. This is not how it works! Get up and do something, enjoy the weather or whatever the hell you normally do." He gestures dramatically.  
Sherlock still lies in his bed, like nobody else was in the room with him and doesn't move. After a moment, Lestrade continues, taking one step closer to the bed:  
"Please Sherlock, aren't you tired of this? It has been weeks now, since the day. There has to be something for you to do. Just something like watching birds or playing the violin. We would love to see you again on the streets in action."  
He watches Sherlock's breathing, just to be sure he still does, but after he didn't get an answer again, his voice becomes soft and caring.  
"The truth is, we need you. I need you, Sherlock, Scotland Yard needs you and London as well. There are criminals outside, waiting to get caught and without your help, we won't be able to. Do you understand? Get back to work, Sherlock. It's important to move on."  
Lestrade leaves and as he walks away, the music volume gets turned up again.

Just this one person, was able to get him to talk. The only one, who Sherlock trusts, although he doesn't like to admit. His own brother. He is the only one, who can perceive Sherlocks state.  
As soon Mycroft walks up the stairs and Sherlock hears the sound of an umbrella between those familiar footsteps, an inconvenient atmosphere fills the room.  
"You might know, falling back to old habits, isn't the most graceful way to handle the death of a beloved one."  
"It wasn't merely someone, Mycroft." His voice is husky and rough from the hours of weeping. One can perceive the shaking, weak body and the neverending waters of tears.  
Mycroft doesn't waste any time, he just goes straight to the point: "Don't you think, it's time to bury him, Sherlock? We will arrange a huge funeral, with all of his contacts and make our farewells all together or we will drive to the next church one day only with his closest friends"  
"To which you certainly don't belong."  
"Sherlock I beg you, this is important. I can't treat you like the first time that happened, you were seventeen. Just a child-"  
With a bit of anger coming up in his voice, Sherlock interrupts quickly: "You are dare to mention him?"  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, could you behave like an adult, just for once?"  
Sherlock shuts his mouth and listens disciplined.  
"You will have to make a speech."  
"Shouldn't be a partner or his sister the one who does that?"  
Calm and soft, Mycroft confesses: "I'm afraid, you were the closest to him."  
Sherlock thinks about the funeral and him standing in front, talking about John. But just for a moment, until he notices that tears are filling his eyes again. He simply says: "I won't be present..."  
"You will, Sherlock. You will be present, you will sit there in silence and listen to the pastor and take farewell to John, like all the others. And if you refuse, I will take care of that myself."  
"What if I just don't want to come?" One can hear, how he fights against bursting out crying.  
"Why wouldn't you want to?"   
He screams: "Because I don't want to say goodbye forever, that's why!"  
In shock, Mycroft stares at Sherlock, who finally uncovers his face, so it is visible. Not many had the involuntary privilege to have seen Sherlock in complete sadness, destroyed from feelings, unwilling to live. His face says it all.  
"What do I have to do? What do you want, Sherlock?"  
"I want John..." And with that, Sherlock huddles back into the sheets and shivers. Even so mycroft opens the door and concludes straightforward: "Anthea and I will pick you up at eleven o'clock, Sunday morning. Don't forget the speech, brother dear."  
He turns off the light and leaves.

The next morning, Sherlock jumps out his bed, like reborn, showers and places himself in front of the window. He takes his violin and a sheet of music, then he begins to compose. Every so often he scribbles notes on the stave and plays the melody again and again. He plays the whole day, seeming not to stop, but at nighttime, by the time the lamp posts turn on, he can't keep his thoughts at the back of his mind and feelings overcome him once again. There he stays, graceful playing sad violin music, whilst tears stream down his face.

Sunday morning, Anthea knocks at the door, hoping to find a Sherlock in a black suit, ready to accompany her, but instead she finds him in his bed, like all the other days.   
"Mr. Holmes, your brother awaits you in the car. Please dress yourself now."  
"I won't come, Anthea. You will have to do it without me, I am sorry."  
"But the speech?"  
"I can't do it. I can't stand in front of a crowd and talk about John, us and our time together without loosing a tear and I really don't want those people to see me like that."  
"Nobody else is prepared, what are we supposed to do?"  
"Take the USB on the kitchen table. I recorded it, don't worry, but please leave now."  
"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

At the funeral, everybody searches for Sherlock. They are more worried about him than about the Watsons, but most of them accept, that the detective can't be with them at the moment.   
Instead of a person, standing in front, holding a speech about the man of the day, a laptop is placed, on which the USB plays back. Everybody expects words, the speech of Sherlock or at least an apology, that he can't be with them in those tragic moments. But everyone gets to hear a violin piece instead. The one Sherlock composed just a few days ago, he made just for John.  
So Lestrade leans over to Mrs. Hudson: "Did he make that?"  
"Yes dear, he sometimes can't reveal his feelings with words, so he does that with music."

With a black suit and a red rose, he finally finds himself in front of the tombstone of his best friend. Just next to his own grave.  
"Everybody wants me to say goodbye, so here am I.  
I know I should have been at your funeral. I should have given you your last honour and be present, but I couldn't. I still can't and I won't. Because all of those deaths I have seen. The ones I provided and the ones I have caused, none of them, not even my own, are nearly as painful as yours.   
John, after all we went through, after everything you did for me, I can't imagine a world without you by my side. For my whole life, it felt like there is something missing, until we met and then I am not even able to protect it with all I have.   
You protected me. You saved my life several times. Not just in dangerous situations, no, just with your presence. You made everyday special to me. You lit up my life of grey and white. You were everything to me, John and I never had the chance to tell you that.   
Do you know what is even worse for an artist, than not being able to do his work?-Loosing his passion. To have all you need, ready to create the incredible, but simply don't want to anylonger. It destroys your mind.  
But who am I telling this. I am sorry, John, I now know what you must have went through and I deeply regret everything I have done and might not have. If I had one wish, it would be, that you didn't have to go through all of that.  
Just, please tell me, how you managed to survive that time, I beg you, because I can't imagine, how I will do that. I can't, John, I can't do it. There were so many things, I yet wanted to say. So many things, just in front of us, left to be done.   
Do you know what's the best? As I left you, I knew I will be back. There was a reason to go on and fight for whatever I was doing, mainly because I knew, I will be with you again and that kept me alive.  
And now there is nothing left for me to stay, nothing to hold on.  
If I just had known, that our time is restricted, I would have savored every single second like the last. And what have I done for real in the last seconds? I let you down, only took care of myself and left you behind in the rush of the passionate fever we loved so much. I wasn't able to protect you, it's my fault.  
Do you remember? The thrill and the adrenaline rushing through our veins? Yes. I think I won't feel that ever again. It wouldn't be the same, without you.   
John, this isn't a final goodbye. Simply build on the fact, that there is nothing to finish. Life will still be created and death to take it away. The world moves as always.  
You are not next to me anymore, what's the matter about that, huh? Yes, I won't see you again, except on pictures and in my dreams. Will never hear your voice, but on videotapes. Won't ever be able to feel your warmth or smell your shampoo in your washed hair again. Though, what's left is our time together and your records of it and oh I will never get tired of reading your blog and rewinding our cases.   
You know, in a way you are still here. As long as you are in my mind, you will live on. You live there and as long my heart beats, you still exist.   
I am not much into vows, but there is one thing I promise and know for sure: My heart never stops beating for you."  
He places the rose on the stone and leaves.

At the end of it all, Sherlock didn't stop working. He did go on, indeed, but not as it was expected. For the next time, only one case casted a spell over him. Days after days, he worked harder and harder, never gave up and kept searching for this rifleman. This specific case filled up every single spare time he could get. He fully put himself into it, all because of John. He worked like a maschine, to find the man who shot his best friend and to be able to receive bitter revenge. He truly wants this shooter to feel the same pain he let John went through. A bullet in the stomach it will be.  
It was a pretty rough time, but some things didn't change at all. Long days and long nights, hours of lost sleep and much tea. He barely eats or drinks enough water a day, as usual. Besides all of it, he didn't fall back to old habits at all. He never gave in, because he knew John wouldn't have liked to see it.  
A lot of time was spend in the mind palace, where the different details got connected and where Sherlock finally solved the whole thing. He knew where to find this man and how to eliminate him as well. As clever as he is, he worked out every single possibility of the encouter and estimated all angles up to the tiniest ones. Nothing blocked the way of the genius anylonger, just time was a problem. He had less than twenty minutes, after the bullet hit the body of the man, to flee and find a save spot, where the police won't find him.   
He left everything behind, like on a normal day, told Mrs. Hudson, that he would go for a walk, to get some fresh air and didn't show any abnormal behaviour.  
The street was empty. The only two were Sherlock and the target, just around the corner. He was ready, everything went as it was planned. It all happened quick, though. The man didn't even notice Sherlocks presence, neither he saw the shot coming from Sherlock's gun. Sherlock haven't had a problem with the fact, he killed a man, because in his mind, it was the only possible and logical thing to do to a man, who did the same.

Anyways the place, where he decided to go after the encounter, was the cemetery. To visit John for one last time. And that's where we found him.  
His left hand touches the tombstone. "I took revenge, John. I did it for you. I found him. He is dead now. He won't do any more harm on us, I promise."  
He lights the candles of both graves. One for John, one for him.   
"Do you remember, when I said, that as long my heart beats, it's for you? I meant it, John. And I keep promises."  
He sits down on the grass and leans his back against his own tombstone. With one slide, he gets out his gun and unbolts it.  
"Now, that there is nothing left for me to do for you, I don't see a purpose in staying. It was you. It is always you, John Watson."  
Sherlock wanted to fill that empty grave he was sitting on, so that both of them don't have to be alone anylonger.


End file.
